Forbidden

by Ted Dekker

  Vorrin glanced toward the window. “It would be an auspicious end, I think, to see the sun once before the conclusion of my reign.”

  Saric poured his father some tea, then forked venison and greens onto his plate. “Are we really going to talk about the weather?” He walked around the small table and sat down.

  “You’re right. Time enough to reflect on these things after.” Vorrin bowed his head and Saric paused, hands in his lap.

  “Maker guide us in all we do. We are blessed to have Order.”

  “We are blessed,” Saric murmured before reaching to fill his own plate.

  They ate for a full minute in silence before Vorrin set down his fork. “Now that it’s ending, I confess, I find myself filled with some strange anxiety. But I’m comforted that Feyn will soon take my place.”

  “Do you suppose that Megas, at the end of his reign, looked back on all that he had accomplished and considered it good?”

  “Megas, more than any of us, accomplished great things.”

  “And yet some say that he had Sirin killed. Have you ever heard that?”

  Vorrin stirred his tea. “Yes,” he said at last. “It is an old, blasphemous rumor. One of many. Whatever the truth, the Maker has seen fit to grant us Order out of it. That is what matters.”

  “Is it?” Saric set his fork down and stared across the table at the aged thing that had once been his father. “Is it all that matters, really? You say that, but I have to ask, what was so bad about Chaos?”

  “Please. Such questions you ask.” He set down his spoon. “You’ve lived so long under the prosperity of Order that you cannot know—none of us can—the horrors of Chaos. The violence of it. The dark ends of hate and jealousy and ambition.”

  “Are they all so dark?”

  “Yes,” Vorrin said, lifting his teacup. He took a small sip. “Or have you forgotten the events prior to Sirin—the detonation of the weapons? Millions of lives were lost. Farmlands ruined. Many people starved. Where there is hunger and death, there is terrible unrest. All that makes us human, all of our higher pursuits, become lost to baser ways. Men become like animals. It was Sirin who preached Order out of darkness. But it was Megas who had the vision to give Sirin’s Order universal life.”

  Saric’s gaze followed his father’s cup as it settled back on the saucer. “You respect Megas, yes? Even if he had Sirin killed.”

  “There was a time when this rumor troubled me greatly. But sometimes imperfect tools lead us toward perfect ends.”

  Saric resisted the urge to smile. “Look around you, Father. Do you really see perfection?”

  Vorrin glanced up, fork in hand. He set it down, ran his tongue over his lips, and sucked at a tooth.

  “Of course it’s not perfect. You and I know that. But the people need a way to temper their fear of death. They need their icons, their support rails to hold on to as they walk unsteadily through this life. We need them, too. Order isn’t perfect, but it’s surely greater than we are.”

  “Is it? To what end?” Saric said. “Bliss? What do you know of Bliss?”

  “I know only what you know: That it is the absence of fear. And I know that the rules of Order mark the path that avoids fear. The Maker does not require the rules of us; we require the rules of the Maker. We are the ones who need them, not he. That is the greatest secret. You’ve never understood this the way Feyn does. But in time, you will. That is my prayer for you.”

  The old man coughed. He dabbed at his lips, looked down at his napkin as though surprised at the saliva there.

  Saric slid back from the table and stood. “Do you know what I think, Father? That I do understand. I understand that this is all so much rot. That you’ve bought into the greatest illusion of all. We’re not more human because of Order. We’re less. The very Maker we bow to has stripped us of passion!”

  A muscle beneath the wrinkled skin of his father’s eye had begun to tic, like the first mechanical hiccup of a malfunctioning machine.

  “Megas was great for his passions, you old fool. For his willingness to take up a weapon and make his convictions a reality. But in doing so he stripped us of the same thing that made him great. And what are we now? We’re rats.” He dropped his napkin onto his plate. “But no longer, Father. I will not abide in this rat hole.”

  “What—what are you talking about?” Vorrin said, his last word coming out with a wheeze. He tried to push back from the table as well, but his hands trembled. His strength had left him. “Dear Maker…”

  Saric slowly approached him, watching the failure of his body with dispassion. “You refused me the senate, Father. And so I shall take it my own way.”

  Vorrin pulled at the neck of his robe, gasping for breath. “You don’t know what you’re doing. You’ll throw the world back to Chaos!”

  Saric jerked his father’s robe, sending the Sovereign sprawling to the floor. “More than that, dear Father, I’ll rule that chaos with an army that will make you gasp from your grave.”

  Vorrin curled and then arched against the floor, mouth open, jaw working, sucking air. Not unlike a fish, Saric thought.

  “Your heart is stopping,” Saric said, tilting his head to study him. It was just as Corban said. “A small gift of alchemy. A little something that will leave no trace, I’ve been assured.”

  “I beg you…I beg you, my son—” Vorrin gasped, his thin lips turning blue.

  Saric crouched next to him, peered into his ashen face. “It’s so beneath you to beg for your life.”

  The Sovereign’s lips moved, but this time no sound came out. Instead, the breath wheezed from between them as the light slowly faded from his old gray eyes.

  The room was silent.

  Saric stood and embraced the fear and anguish that now flooded his mind. He’d prepared for this moment, but he hadn’t expected his emotions to be so natural, so visceral.

  He let out a cry and lurched toward the door. Threw himself against it, pushed it open.

  “Help!”

  The cry came out as a guttural roar, propelling the secretary to her feet. “Get the doctor! The Sovereign’s stopped breathing!”

  She went white.

  “Now!” he shouted.

  He spun and hurried back to his father’s side. It would only take a minute; the Sovereign’s physician, however rarely needed, lived in an adjacent apartment just as the head of the senate did.

  When the sound of pounding feet reached him, Saric sank to his knees beside the lifeless ruler. “This was your fault,” he said softly into the lifeless old ear. “You were always a fool.”

  Saric straightened and pushed against Vorrin’s chest. “Breathe, Father!” he shouted. A wheeze slid through the dead Sovereign’s lips. Saric pounded his father’s ribs with a fist.

  Rowan came bursting into the room.

  “Help me!” Saric shouted.

  In a flurry of robes the senate leader dropped to his knees on the other side of the Sovereign. He tilted up Vorrin’s head, listening for breath, but there was none to hear.

  Others had pushed through the heavy doors. Some of them held their hands against their mouths, stifling their cries; some wailed fearful prayers.

  Some simply stared at the body jerking on the floor as the senate leader pounded upon Vorrin’s chest.

  “The physician is here—out of the way!”

  Saric spun back just as the woman who’d seen to his father’s health for the last decade—a middle-aged woman named Sarai—burst through the knot of onlookers. She dropped to her knees and felt his throat, listened near his mouth, and then stacked her hands upon his chest and began a rapid series of compressions. The body of the Sovereign spasmed like a puppet to the audible crunch of bone.

  Rowan turned away as though he might be sick.

  After several moments, the doctor stopped. Sweat beaded on her temple and nose.

  “He’s dead?” someone cried from the door.

  “Out!” Rowan roared. “Get out!”

  “It ca
n’t be.” Saric let anguish fill his throat. He fell back on his heels and stared at the dead body. “My father’s dead?”

  That silence was answer enough. Those at the door did not leave but stood transfixed by the sight.

  Saric let out a low moan. He staggered to his feet, gripped his robe with both hands, and ripped it wide.

  “Father!”

  Rowan, trembling and pale, stood to follow the old custom. His long fingers dug into the front of his great black robe. The heavy velvet tore open.

  “Maker have mercy on us.”

  Saric sank back down to his knees. He wrapped his arms around the old man’s carcass, so thin beneath the myriad layers of his embroidered robe. “Father, Father…”

  You see how low I will stoop now, Father? To belittle myself like this in such a pathetic fashion? How I cradle your body when others shrink from it?

  He felt his body shaking, but it was from his own rage and disgust, not the fear the others thought they saw.

  “Father…”

  They tried to draw Saric up by the shoulders. “My lord…”

  It was Rowan. He pulled at Saric with trembling hands.

  Saric dug his fingers into the withered limbs of his father and clung more tightly.

  “My lord! It’s death. You must let go.”

  Saric turned on the man. “Leave me! Leave us!”

  The senate leader looked about him, obviously disoriented by the unprecedented nature of this event. Which of them had ever witnessed the death of a Sovereign? Even the physician had backed away, white-faced.

  “Sire, you must know.” Rowan’s tremulous voice filled the chamber. “I cite the Order: If one Sovereign shall die before the end of his term, his eldest, should he have progeny, shall rule in his place until the end of that term.”

  The senate leader was shaking. Saric could see it now in the tremor of his torn robes where they gaped like wounds against his bare, smooth chest.

  “Sire…”

  Saric flung his hand out. “Leave me!”

  “But you must—”

  “My Sovereign lies dead and you cite old laws?”

  “The Sovereign lives,” Rowan said. The senate leader’s face was a mask of terror. Saric saw it clearly—the man’s slow swallow, the working of his throat, the tight draw of his brows.

  “He is Saric, eldest son of Vorrin.” He dipped his head.

  “Do not speak this to me,” Saric said, this time with dangerous quiet.

  Rowan’s eyes darted back and forth between Saric and the form of Vorrin. He was fearful, yes, but resolved to follow Order. Doggedly determined. As ever.

  As Saric knew he would be.

  “Sire, I cite the Order.”

  Saric stood. “No. Call for my sister.” He turned toward the door. “Call my sister, Feyn!”

  “It is the law!” Rowan said, and sank to one knee.

  Behind him the doctor hesitated, and then quickly followed suit. One by one, those standing in the doorway, the Citadel Guard in the middle of the room, Camille the secretary, all went down to their knees.

  “Get up. All of you, get up!” Saric snapped. “I’m not fit to advise this man, much less sit on the throne.”

  No one rose.

  “Forgive me,” Rowan said. “I never realized until now your great loyalty to your father.” There was something new in his eyes, Saric thought. A newfound deference that had not been there before. “We all fear and mourn this loss. But now you must come before the senate. Please. You cannot leave the world without a Sovereign.”

  “You would have me as Sovereign for three days when Feyn has been groomed for this, has prepared years for it, and is poised, even now, in preparation for this very office? In this one thing the Maker has been merciful. Seek my sister.”

  “She cannot assume rule yet. Order forbids it.”

  “There is Order, but there is also practicality and reason. If you won’t move to inaugurate Feyn early, then at least choose someone with experience. Miran, Sovereign before Father, is alive and well. Let him serve.”

  Rowan stood and closed the space between them. He touched Saric’s sleeve and spoke in a low voice. “Sire, I beg you. Everyone will be fearful enough that they’ve lost a Sovereign. We cannot deviate from Order. In such a difficult time especially, you must follow protocol.”

  Saric pushed back and snapped at those gathered on their knees by the door. “Get out! All of you, out. Have you no respect for the dead?”

  They hurried out, leaving only Saric, Rowan, and the physician to contend with the dead body.

  When they had gone, Rowan started to speak, but Saric silenced him with a gesture.

  “I won’t serve a law that’s a disservice to humanity,” he said. “This law, however inspired by the Order, is not in favor of the people.”

  “Nevertheless, it’s the law!”

  Saric looked at the form of his father sprawled upon the floor, and then tore his gaze away. He covered his face in his hands and breathed deeply. At last, he dropped his hands: “Then grant me this. Put me before the senate. Let me make my argument there, not here over my father’s still-warm body.”

  “As head of the senate, I can assure you—”

  “I insist. Before the senate or not at all.”

  Rowan bowed his head. “As you wish. I’ll assemble the senate. It will take a few hours. In the meantime—”

  “In the meantime the world will have no Sovereign. So I suggest you hurry.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Seven miles north of Byzantium, Rom stepped into a broken-down shack with a crooked roof. The boards of its three standing sides were worn to a deathly gray, but a carpet of emerald grass and a sea of red anemones covered the ground. He’d never seen anything so lush, so green or wild in his life. In Byzantium, parks were artificial and stunted approximations of nature. Never had he seen the artful spread of the Maker as he saw it now, where it reclaimed nearly five centuries of barrenness in glorious patches such as this.

  Beauty did not help him at the moment, however.

  Rom had tied Feyn’s hands to an old post, then tied her ankles together for good measure. Now he pulled free the strip of muslin that had kept her quiet all night. He hadn’t relished the idea of gagging her for so long, but he couldn’t risk her screams being heard by a stray convoy.

  She spit out some lint and stared at him. For half a minute, neither spoke.

  “Is this really necessary?” Feyn motioned at her ties with her chin.

  “Yes.”

  “We’re in the middle of nowhere. You think I’m going to run away?”

  “If I let you go, what’s to keep you from braining me with a rock and riding out of here?”

  He probably shouldn’t have offered that.

  Her eyes shone like arctic mirrors in the morning light. “You’ve abducted a future Sovereign. You must realize the consequence.”

  She rested her head against the post, jaw fixed, eyes steady, her hair a dark tangle about her. It had lashed him in the face like a thousand tiny whips through the course of the last few hours, and he was glad to have it out of his eyes.

  Maker, what was he doing?

  She was right. He was going to die. Hades had already prepared his special chamber of torment.

  Rom glanced up at the sun filtering in through the old boards, the sky open along the eastern side of the old shack as though they sat in a theater. They had ridden beyond the gray stratus clouds that normally surrounded the city. Although the sky was full of feathery wisps, morning light filtered into every corner of the old structure.

  He tilted his face heavenward and inhaled.

  “What are you doing?”

  “The sun. Do you feel it? Isn’t it amazing?”

  She glanced up. “I suppose it’s soothing.”

  He turned toward her. “Don’t you see? Don’t you feel it?”

  “Yes, I feel it. It’s warm.”

  “No. Not just that…” He felt a pang of sadness.
She was so beautiful—was it possible for her to be so unmoved? Yet he would have been the same two days ago.

  He sat back on his heels in the grass next to her. It would be so easy for him to become rapt in these surroundings, the sheer light of it, the greenery of the scrub grass, the speckle of the red flowers. This was Bliss if he had ever dreamed of it.

  But even this would soon mean nothing if she didn’t help him. Time was not his friend.

  “Can’t you see how beautiful this is to me? How full of life it is? I am?”

  “I can see how mad you are,” she said flatly. Her skin seemed more opaque in his shadow. The faint lines beneath it were like the veining of fine marble.

  “Please, listen to me. I was like you—”

  “You were never like me. I’m quite sure.”

  “I was like you. I felt, I knew, only fear. And when the keeper, the one I’ve been trying to tell you about—”

  “The one in the dungeon.”

  “No, not him. A different one. The one who gave me the vial two days ago.” He withdrew the vellum from his pocket, keeping the vial firmly tucked away as he had in her chamber. “You see all of the writing on here? I can’t decipher it.” He unfolded it and showed her. “But the old man in the dungeon said that you could.”

  She glanced at the vellum and then back up at him.

  “The old man in the dungeon. He’s the reason we’re here. He’s the one who said I shouldn’t leave the Citadel without showing this to you. That you could make sense of this.”

  “And you’ve done all of this because a madman gave you something to drink, and something that you can’t read, and another madman told you to come to me to make sense of it.”

  He hesitated. “Yes.”

  “Then you’re as mad as they are.”

  Was it possible to make her understand? He searched around him. “The flowers, the sun. Don’t they move you? Don’t you want to sing?” He hummed a few notes. “I’m a singer, you know? The thought of it now…” He swallowed past the lump in his throat.

  Feyn was watching her stallion nip up the heads off several anemones with a clump of grass.